


Beach Ficlets

by emmagrant01



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hand porn, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Mutual Masturbation, Office Sex, Oral Sex, consensual infidelity - sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:43:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been a bit of a writing slump lately, so I asked for prompts and pairings on Tumblr. I received lots of inspiration in response, so I'm going to try to start writing some of these while I have a lovely blue ocean to stare out at and a fruity drink by my side. These will be short, unbeta'd, probably mostly porny, and will cover a variety of fandoms and pairings. I'll update the tags as I go.</p><p>So far, we have:<br/>1. Johnlock (BBC Sherlock)<br/>2. Drarry (Harry Potter)<br/>3. Johnstrade (BBC Sherlock)<br/>4. Greg/Molly (BBC Sherlock)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Splinter (Johnlock)

Snowytumble requested: Johnlock, splinter

**

The first time John noticed was when he asked Sherlock to hand him a pen. He’d expected Sherlock to toss it to him with a typically ostentatious flip, but instead Sherlock had merely extended the pen and waited for John to pluck it from his fingers. 

John frowned for a full second before he noticed the plaster on Sherlock’s index finger. He couldn’t recall seeing a plaster on Sherlock in, well, ever -- much less one carefully wrapped around the pad of his finger.

“What’d you do?” John asked after a moment, nodding pointedly toward Sherlock’s hand.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock’s gaze didn’t budge from the laptop screen.

“Your finger.”

“Nothing.”

John opened his mouth, but then closed it again. It was pointless to push the issue. It was just a plaster.

Two days later, Sherlock had stopped using his right hand altogether. He twisted it out of John’s sight when he caught John peering curiously at it, and so John finally had to ask:

“Sherlock, what happened to your finger?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock gave him the creepy non-smile he reserved for clients he was about to show the door.

“Let me see.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together for a brief moment, and John could see the strop building from three yards away. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Show me.”

“It’s nothing, just a tiny cut.” He took a step backward as John approached, and found himself backed up against the kitchen table. 

John held out his hand, summoning the sort of patience he reserved for small children, hypochondriacs, and more and more frequently, his flatmate. 

“I just haven’t taken the plaster off.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Which would explain why the tip of your finger is red and swollen, and why you’ve been avoiding using that hand all day?”

There was a long pause, during which Sherlock attempted multiple variations on a glare, all of which John ignored. Finally, Sherlock exhaled huffily and held out his hand.

The redness was even more pronounced up close, and the fingertip was hot to the touch. John turned his hand over gently, holding it firmly when Sherlock tried to pull it away again.

“I’m going to take this off,” John began, and Sherlock made a small sound of protest. “And you are going to explain to me why you didn’t just come to me in the first place.”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

He carefully peeled off the plaster, revealed a small infected wound beneath. He squinted. “What the… Was it a splinter?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s tone was one of resignation. He offered no further explanation.

He’d clearly tried to remove it, but a small piece had broken off and remained lodged beneath his skin. “Did you put anything on it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

“Fine. At least I’ve caught before it got worse. Sit.” He pointed to the nearest kitchen chair.

Sherlock glared in response. 

A half an hour and some tense moments later, the splinter was removed and the wound cleaned out, and Sherlock’s finger had been rebandaged with a liberal amount of antibiotic ointment. He sat at the table while John cleaned up, frowning at his hand.

“It still hurts.”

“Don’t be such an infant. Want a nurofen?”

“Yes.”

John dug the bottle from the cupboard where he kept medical supplies, and filled a glass from the tap. He set both in front of Sherlock, and watched as Sherlock swallowed the pills down.

John sighed and leaned against the table next to him. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

“It was horrible.”

“Hmmm. I’d offer you a lollipop, but I’m fresh out.”

“Very funny.”

John shook his head. “I’m serious, Sherlock. You’ve been shot, for God’s sake. You’ve been beaten, probably tortured, for all I know. Why the hell would a splinter turn you into a blithering child?”

Sherlock frowned. “I was not--”

“All right, fine. That was a bit harsh. But still.”

Sherlock shrugged and looked down at his bandaged finger. “Fingers are different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know.”

John reached for Sherlock’s uninjured hand and Sherlock tensed. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He turned Sherlock’s large hand over in his, and pressed his thumbs against the palm in a gentle massage.

The tips of Sherlock’s ears went pink, but he didn’t try to pull his hand away.

“I think I understand,” John said, continuing the massage. “I don’t like anyone to touch my ears. It makes me incredibly self-conscious.” He stroked the length of each finger in turn, applying gentle pressure, and Sherlock went completely wide-eyed and still, as if he were torn between staying there and fleeing for the safety of his room.

“It’s not” --Sherlock swallowed audibly-- “My fingers are... sensitive.”

John nodded. “They’d have to be, the way you play.” The violin had been unusually quiet this week, now that he thought of it. “Not to mention the way you type.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Not just like that.”

John froze, understanding dawning. “Ah… Is this okay?”

There was a long pause. “Yeah.”

John continued his massage, watching Sherlock’s face carefully. He worked all the small muscles in his hands, pressed small circles around the joints, and then intertwined his fingers with Sherlock’s in order to stretch open his palm. 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the hard kitchen chair, but he didn’t pull his hand away. He exhaled slowly, and in the midst of it, John heard a small sound almost like a moan.

John lifted Sherlock’s hand to his mouth without even stopping to think. He’d already closed his lips around the tip of Sherlock’s middle finger before the implications of what he’d done occurred to him. Sherlock gasped and John froze, and they did not look at each other. They breathed for a moment, and then John couldn’t help himself: his tongue circled the tip of that finger again.

Sherlock’s head fell back against the chair. He pressed his injured hand against the front of his clearly strained trousers. John sucked his finger in to the knuckle, and Sherlock stroked his own erection through the fine fabric.

_Oh my God._

John had no idea how they’d got to this point, where John was fellating one of Sherlock’s fingers and Sherlock was on the verge of pulling himself off at the _kitchen table_ on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday afternoon, but here they were. It was probably an incredibly stupid idea, but they’d already started. The awkward conversation they’d have to have in a few minutes wasn’t likely to get much worse just because someone got off. Would it?

John took a deep breath, and took in another finger.

Sherlock began stroking his palm up and down his erection in earnest, his breathing erratic. John watched him, matched the movements of his tongue to Sherlock’s hand, and then realized with a sort of sinking acceptance that he was also getting hard, and oh, but that was a whole ‘nother level of fucked-up-edness where Sherlock was concerned that he’d have to dwell on later. 

Much later. For now, he slid his free hand under the waistband of his jeans and pants, and squeezed. He sucked Sherlock’s fingers and wriggled his tongue between them, and Sherlock made a sound almost like frustration. It was a moment before it occurred to John that Sherlock was trying to get himself off with his injured hand.

John stepped forward, one leg between Sherlock’s spread knees, and pushed at his shoulder. Sherlock took the hint and slid forward in the chair to grind himself wantonly against John’s thigh. John unfastened his jeans and tugged raggedly at his own cock, and _Jesus_ , were they really doing this?

As if in response, Sherlock made a sound low in his throat and pressed his forehead against John’s side. John pulled himself harder, and it was gloriously quick and dirty, and accidentally bit Sherlock’s fingers when he came. Sherlock’s cry was muffled by John’s jumper, and he sagged against John a moment later, panting.

They stood there like that for several long, awkward seconds, neither of them wanting to be the first to break contact. The spell would be over and weirdness would ensue, and John had no idea how--

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

John blinked and looked down at him. He was, unexpectedly, smirking.

“If I’d known the thoroughness of your medical service, I’d have said something sooner.”

John gaped at him for a full second before finally bursting into laughter. He sat back and let his sticky hand fall uselessly to his side, and pressed the other over his eyes for a moment. “That was… I don’t even know what to say, Sherlock.”

“Are you…” Sherlock trailed off and John looked down to see that his expression had closed a bit.

“No, no,” John said, turning toward him. “It’s fine, it’s… good. I just… You’re okay with this?”

Sherlock stood, shifting his trousers a bit awkwardly. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

John decided it was best not to answer that question. Instead, he stepped forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s.

He lost himself there for quite a long time.

***


	2. The Arrangement (Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have an arrangement, you see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the amazing response to the first ficlet! This one was, surprisingly, the only Drarry prompt I got. It was requested by Fromunderthestairs, and the prompt itself is a bit of a spoiler, so I will put it at the end. This contains Harry/Draco with a bit of Harry/Ginny and Draco/Astoria. And a lot of smut. :-)

***

“As we agreed.” Ginny placed a small sealed envelope on the table.

Draco’s eyes narrowed for a moment before he reached inside the front pocket of his elegant robe and pulled out a similarly-sized one. He handed it across the table to Ginny. “I don’t know why he doesn’t just ask me himself.”

“Yes, you do.”

Draco raised one sleek eyebrow in response, then leaned back in his chair as two steaming cups drifted down to their table.

Ginny reached for the sugar bowl. “He’s a bit old-fashioned in that way.”

“More like sexually repressed.”

“And you would know?”

“I have no comment on the matter.” He lifted his cup and looked pointedly away from the table. Silence hung heavily between them for nearly a minute, even as the activity of the cafe whirled around them. 

Ginny drained her cup and set it down with a louder clink than necessary. “Is this... are you really okay with it?”

Draco shrugged. “Are you?”

“I don’t mind. There are benefits for me, believe it or not.”

“I can imagine.” He smirked around the rim of his coffee cup. “It’s an unusual arrangement, but less messy than the alternative.” He picked up Ginny’s envelope and turned it over in his fingers. 

Ginny counted out knuts for the coffee and placed them next to her empty cup. “See you next month, then?”

He smiled magnanimously. “I wouldn’t miss it.” 

***

Harry turned off the water and reached for his towel. It wasn’t there. He tugged the curtain aside, frowning. He’d hung it right there not five minutes ago.

“Looking for something?”

Harry felt the flip in his belly before he’d even turned to look. Draco Malfoy stood in the bathroom doorway, slightly blurry, but still all long lines and reptilian smile. From the end of one long finger hung Harry’s towel.

Harry pushed the curtain aside and stepped dripping onto the bathroom floor. He stared back at Draco for a moment. “Ginny--”

“Isn’t here right now.” Draco’s gaze drifted down Harry’s body, lingering at his groin. 

“Got it.” Harry held out his hand. Draco balled up the towel and tossed it at Harry’s head, then turned and walked away.

Harry watched him go and took a deep, calming breath.

He toweled himself off and ran a comb through his hair. He stared at himself in the mirror for several long seconds, and finally whispered, “What the hell am I doing?”

His reflection winked at him and whispered, “Go get it, son.”

Draco was stretched out on the bed, boots removed but otherwise still fully clothed, and flipping through the copy of _Witch Weekly_ that had been on Ginny’s bedside table. “There’s an absolutely fascinating article about you in this one, Potter.”

There was something slightly off about his voice, and Harry winced. “Please don’t talk.”

Draco looked up at him again with narrowed eyes, then tossed the magazine to the floor. He stretched his arms over his head and stared back at Harry, silent. Harry stood and watched him for a moment before closing the last few feet to the bed. He reached out and pushed a strand of blond hair back from Draco’s forehead. He looked to be growing it out again, but this wasn’t the time for that conversation.

Harry slid a hand around the back of Draco’s head, fingers tightening in his hair, and pulled him up into a rough kiss. Draco made a small sound of pleasure, but was otherwise completely pliant as Harry climbed on top of him and straddled his thighs.

Harry broke the kiss, panting, and then shifted forward until the tip of his cock was inches from Draco’s chin.

Draco’s mouth was already wet and reddened, and when he parted his lips, Harry’s cock got impossibly harder. His tongue flicked lightly at the underside of the head, and his pale blue eyes stared up at Harry.

Harry braced his hands on the headboard and pushed forward, his cock disappearing into Draco’s mouth inch by inch until it was fully seated. Draco’s eyes began to water slightly, and Harry pulled back. He pressed forward again, slowly fucking his mouth. 

“I love to see you like this,” Harry whispered. “Just taking it, choking on it.”

Draco’s hands slid over his bare arse, pulling him forward and pushing him back again, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to bruise.

It was too good too soon, though. Harry pulled back and sat on Draco’s hips, and felt his erection pressing up under his balls. 

“You’re wearing entirely too many clothes,” Harry said, tugging at the fastenings of Draco’s fancy shirt. 

Draco stared blandly up at him, apparently having taken Harry’s admonition not to speak quite seriously. Harry gave up on the shirt and moved further down to unfasten Draco’s trousers. He slithered them down Draco’s narrow hips until his cock bobbed free.

“Hello, lovely,” Harry said, and then swallowed it down. 

Draco finally made a sound at that: his head fell back and he arched up into Harry’s mouth, gasping. Harry worked his cock slowly with lips and teeth and tongue, and when he looked up again, Draco was watching with something akin to awe.

Harry pulled off and sat up. “I want you to fuck me. Long and slow, for as long as you can manage. Will you do that for me?”

Draco’s eyes were darker than Harry had ever seen, and his voice was a hoarse whisper: “Yes.”

Harry rummaged in the bedside table’s drawer for the right potion and Draco stripped off the remainder of his clothes. Harry set the small vial on the table and then stretched out on his back on the bed, knees up and thighs spread. Draco’s eyes practically glazed over at the sight. He reached for the vial and missed it the first time. 

“Amateur.”

“You wish,” Draco retorted, settling on the bed.

Harry closed his eyes as two slick fingers pressed into him, the potion warming and relaxing. Draco’s fingers curled up and lightly circled, and Harry’s hips jerked up.

“Stop teasing. Fuck me, come on.”

“I think I like you pushy.” Draco lifted Harry’s feet up to rest on his shoulders. A moment later, Harry felt the blunt head of his cock press against him and then push forward, breaching his body. 

“Oh, yes, perfect,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

Draco pulled back slightly, then pushed forward again, inching forward. 

Harry felt the tickle of hair against his arse and the glorious stretch, so full and hot and _god_. “Move.”

Draco pulled almost all the way out and slowly pushed in again, changing the angle just _so_ as he did. “Like that?”

Harry’s cock ached. “More.”

It was slow and long and complete torture, and Draco kept him there for what seemed like an hour, stretched out across a precipice, distant waves crashing, so _close_ but not-quite-there, his cock impossibly hard. He wrapped his trembling fingers around it at last and stroked. Draco took it as the signal he’d intended and changed the pace. 

The headboard began bumping against the wall as Draco pounded into him. The neighbors would give him the side-eye later, but Harry didn’t care. It was glorious and he wanted more, needed deeper, _harder_.

“God, you--” Draco said, and then, “I’m close, fuck.”

Harry’s hand moved faster and he shifted his hips, and then, there, _there_ , white hot and perfect.

Draco cried out, shuddering, and finally stilled. He collapsed on Harry a moment later, cock still buried in Harry’s body. Harry could feel two hearts pounding, could feel every bit of the skin where their bodies touched.

“Oh, fuck,” Draco groaned, face pressed into Harry’s shoulder. He shifted and his cock slid out, and Harry winced. 

“I’d better go--”

“Yeah.”

Harry pushed himself to standing and waddled toward the bathroom. He wet a flannel and cleaned himself off, and glanced at the wreck of his hair in the mirror.

“That sounded like fun,” his reflection said with a smirk.

Harry responded with a rude gesture.

He went back to the bedroom and stretched out next to Ginny on the bed. Her body was covered with a slick sheen of sweat, and semen was drying between her breasts. Harry leaned across her to lick it off.

She grinned lazily at him. “Good?”

“Amazing,” he replied, and kissed her. “As usual.”

“Good.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “Your turn next.”

“I’m already working on it.” 

***

Draco Malfoy checked the time on the grandfather clock on the wall and smiled. He stood and stretched, then climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He paused outside the closed door and took a deep, calming breath, then turned the ornate knob.

Harry Potter was stretched out on the bed, naked and already stroking an impressive erection. Draco leaned against the doorway and grinned.

“Astoria, what did I do to deserve you?”

Harry smiled in response, then crooked one finger in invitation. Draco began unfastening the buttons on his shirt and walked forward.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "polyjuice."


	3. Paperwork (Johnstrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holyfant requested John/Lestrade with a prompt of "paperwork."

*

The door opened. John looked up to see Donovan standing in the doorway, shaking her head. 

“Sorry, but I’m not touching this one.”

John grimaced. “I know you don’t like him, but--”

“He broke into a flat and nearly gave the elderly couple living there heart attacks.”

“It was an accident.”

Donovan’s eyebrows rose. “And he just happened to have a crowbar on him, did he?”

“No, it -- it was for a _case_ and he meant to break into the flat next door and oh god, that doesn’t sound any better, I know.”

“He can’t commit crimes to solve cases. You know that as well as I do.” 

John groaned in frustration. This was going nowhere. He just wanted to go home, where _he_ could be the one shouting at Sherlock for doing something so ludicrously risky, and maybe get his life back to some semblance of normal. 

He pressed a hand to his forehead. “For fuck’s sake, whose cock do I have to suck to get this done?”

As if on cue, Greg Lestrade appeared behind Donovan in the doorway. “What is it this time?” 

Donovan jerked her head towards Lestrade with a smirk. “He’s your man, I think.” 

John’s cheeks flamed. Lestrade frowned after Donovan as she walked away and didn’t seem to notice.

**

Greg and John stood side by side on the pavement, watching Sherlock disappear over the ledge of a three-storey building. 

John sighed. “Well, that’s done, then.”

Greg stuffed his hands in his pockets and glanced over his shoulder at the crime scene behind them. His crew had already begun wrapping things up, and there wasn’t much more to be done. This series of high-tech break-ins was driving them all ‘round the bend, and he couldn’t seem to make any progress on it. Fortunately for him, Sherlock had immediately been intrigued. 

“I was supposed to go off shift five hours ago.”

John winced in sympathy. “Long day, then?”

“Long fucking week.” Greg shook his head. “I’m almost done here, though. Fancy joining me for a pint?”

John paused for a moment, and Greg saw a flicker of surprise on his face. “I… yeah, that’d be great, actually.”

Greg clapped him on the shoulder. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

Two hours later, they were both several pints down, squeezed into the corner of a dark, crowded pub. 

John leaned in close to Greg’s ear to be heard over the din. “And then he said, you’re supposed to pull it!” 

They both dissolved into laughter, leaning heavily against each other. The easy camaraderie between them had been a pleasant surprise tonight, and Greg found he wasn’t quite ready to break the spell. His mobile buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to glance at the display. He frowned.

“The office calling?”

Greg shook his head. “My ex. Nothing big, though.” 

He slid the mobile back into his pocket and turned to look at John. His eyes were dark, but at this close range, Greg could see that they were blue. He’d always thought they were brown, somehow. John’s gaze flicked down to Greg’s mouth and back up again, and Greg felt a jolt he hadn’t expected. He was suddenly aware of their proximity, of the way his arm was slung across the back of the banquet, behind John’s back, of the way their faces were only inches apart.

Greg took a long, deep breath, and sat back to put some distance between them. 

“Another round?” John asked. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but he might have been blushing. Greg felt another twinge in his belly.

Well, damn. That was… _well_.

Greg shook his head. “I’d better not. It’s getting late and I’ve got a shit-load of paperwork to do in the morning.”

“Right,” John replied. There was a definite note of disappointment in his tone.

“This was fun. Let’s do it again sometime, yeah?” He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that -- too many pints, probably.

“Yeah.” 

They stared at each other for several long seconds, then they both grinned. 

***

John pulled his jacket on and patted the pocket of his trousers to make sure he had his wallet. “I’m off to the pub with Greg, then.”

Sherlock leaned over the kitchen table, his gaze locked on the dropper of bluish liquid he held over a large beaker of something containing what John fervently hoped was raw chicken. “There’s a euphemism I haven’t heard.”

“What?”

Sherlock squeezed the dropper. The probably-chicken flesh sizzled as droplets hit the surface. “For sex.”

John gaped at him. “You… you think I’m having sex with Greg?”

Sherlock stood and stared down at his experiment, frowning. “Aren’t you?”

“No!”

Sherlock turned the frown to John. “Are you certain?”

“I think I’d know if I was shagging someone.”

“But..." Sherlock blinked rapidly for a moment before continuing. "You’ve been going out with him every week for months, and you always return from your meetings flushed, annoyingly cheerful, and slightly drunk. On four occasions, I’ve caught a whiff of the cologne Lestrade wears, but you typically shower right away, removing any traces of evidence.”

“Evidence?” John sputtered.

“And you never masturbate during those showers, which is atypical, leading me to assume you were sexually satisfied at the time.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!”

“That along with the way you two have behaved in each other’s presence in the last few months, not to mention the way his eyes are practically fixed to your backside the moment you turn around--” 

“Stop, stop, just… shut up, will you?” John’s face was so red now that further denial was pointless. 

Of course he’d shag Greg if he had the chance. Who wouldn’t? But he wasn't sure that was where this was going. Was it? 

God, what if it was?

“Well, we’re not. But even if we were, it’d be none of your concern.”

Sherlock looked slightly disappointed. “I assumed you weren’t bringing him here out of courtesy.” 

John took a deep breath and released it. Might as well dive in the deep end at this point. “So… do you really think he’s…?” John made a vague gesture.

Sherlock gave him a long look, though the effect was somewhat muddled by the safety goggles he wore. “He’s had sexual relationships with at least four men that I know of, all before his recently-ended marriage.”

“Four?” John swallowed. Greg probably had more experience with this sort of thing than he did.

“He told me about two of them. One I witnessed personally, and--”

“You _watched_?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He should have locked the door if he didn’t want me coming in.”

An image of a younger, possibly high Sherlock barging into Greg’s flat in the middle of the night filled John’s mind. “Is that why he banned you from the new flat?” 

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, no. That was years ago.”

“Right.” John pressed his lips together to stop himself from asking more questions. He’d already learned more than he’d really wanted to know. Best to get a move on. “I’m off, then.”

“Enjoy your completely heterosexual evening.” 

John reached for the door handle, muttering, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He’d only just made it out the door when his mobile pinged. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen, swearing under his breath. To his surprise, the text wasn’t from Sherlock.

_Stuck at the office. Mountain of paperwork to finish. Meet a bit later?_

John groaned. There was no way he was going back upstairs now, and it probably wasn’t a good idea to head to the pub and start drinking without Greg. He pursed his lips and considered.

_Already out, Sherlock being an arse. Ok if I come to you?_

He started down the street towards the Tube station, mapping out the quickest route to NSY in his mind. His mobile pinged just as he was heading underground.

_Sure. If you don’t mind watching me type for a while._

John paused to reply before his piece-of-crap mobile lost the signal. 

_I’m sure I can find some way to entertain myself. ;-)_

It wasn’t until he was on the train that he realized the innuendo in what he’d written. 

He emerged from the St James’ Park station fifteen minutes later, mobile in hand and stomach twisting in anticipation. The mobile pinged repeatedly as it caught a signal again. .

_I’m sure you can..._

_It’s kind of quiet here tonight anyway. No one around._

John nearly walked into someone as he scrolled down the screen.

_Hungry?_

John’s mind was suddenly flooded with an image of himself on his knees under Greg’s desk. Oh, God.

_We could order in. Or fuck on the desk._

_Shit, autocorrect._

_*fuck off to the pub_

_SORRY_

John laughed so loud that several people turned to stare at him. He scrolled.

_Security has a visitor badge for you up front._

_Text me when you get here._

And then: _Lestrade is texting me that you aren’t replying to him. -SH_

“Shit,” John hissed, and tapped out a response. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full two seconds before he finally touched it. He put the phone back in his pocket and headed towards NSY.

_I’m up for whatever. Just got off the Tube, on my way._

The security guard at the front entry smiled in recognition and handed him a visitor’s pass. John made his way to the lifts, bouncing on his heels while he waited. It was indeed quiet at this hour, and he didn’t see another person along the way. He finally rounded the corner and saw the doorway that led to Greg’s office. He had to take a deep breath in order to calm the sudden queasiness in his stomach. 

He popped his head through the open doorway. “Hey.”

Greg looked up sheepishly. “Hey. Sorry about this.” He gestured to the computer. “Last minute shit, all due yesterday, of course. Mostly mindless, but it’s got to be done.”

John closed the door behind him and leaned back against it. “Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Greg’s gaze seemed to linger on him a moment before he looked back at the screen in front of him. “I’m almost done, actually. Ten minutes, maybe?”

John crossed to sit in the vacant chair next to his desk. He watched Greg’s fingers dance over the keyboard, strong and nimble, and long. His mind went to the gutter almost immediately.

God, what was wrong with him tonight?

The typing paused for a moment, and John looked up to see Greg was watching him. The instant their eyes met, Greg looked back to the screen with something very near a smirk on his face.

“The door locks, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“And there isn’t surveillance in here. One of the few privileges of the position.”

John looked over to the closed door and the drawn blinds, and back to Greg. Two pink spots appeared high on his cheeks now. John’s breath caught in his throat. There was no way to misinterpret the situation. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

Ah, hell -- what was he waiting for? 

He stood and crossed to the door and locked it. Greg was typing furiously now and very intently not-looking at John. His cheeks were flushed, and John didn’t doubt his heart was pounding beneath that button-down shirt. 

He walked to stand behind Greg. “This isn’t going to cause you any trouble is it?”

“No, but I could get in a hell of a lot of trouble for letting you see what’s on this screen.”

“What screen?” John drew the pad of his thumb down the nape of Greg’s neck. 

Greg shivered and made a small sound like a sigh. His hands stilled on the keyboard.

John leaned forward and pressed his lips against the warm skin above Greg’s shirt collar. “Is this--”

“Yes,” Greg replied, his voice hoarse.

Just like that, John was suddenly, achingly hard. He wanted to pull Greg out of that chair and shove him against the wall, to just take and have and _fuck_ \-- it was nearly overwhelming. He willed his hands not to shake, to move slowly and surely. 

Greg was still frozen before him, fingertips resting lightly on the keys, chest rising and falling in steadying breaths. He didn’t turn around. He was waiting for John to make the first move, to take control. 

It was delicious.

John slid a hand under Greg’s jaw, tilted his head back, and kissed him. It was a strange angle, but Greg’s lips parted and their mouths brushed together, open, exchanging hot air but nothing more. John held him there for long seconds, waiting for him to make the next move. Finally, Greg reached up to slide a hand behind John’s head and pull him down farther, darting his tongue between John’s lips. The chair swiveled and John found himself standing between Greg’s knees, being kissed with a ferocity he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Greg’s hand tightened in John’s hair and the other found its way under his shirt, nails scratching softly over sensitized skin and _fuck_ , why hadn’t they done this sooner?

Greg pulled out of the kiss and stared up at him wildly. His usually perfect hair was mussed, his eyes were dark, and his mouth was wet and red. John wanted nothing more than to dive back in. 

“I can’t leave until I get this done,” Greg panted. “My flat isn’t far, though. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is too long,” John replied, leaning in to kiss him again. “I can’t wait.”

“So entertain yourself,” Greg said against his lips.

John nearly whimpered. Yes, yes -- he could do that, absolutely. He slid to his knees and traced his thumbs up the outline of Greg’s erection through his trousers. He looked up with a smirk. “Don’t let me interrupt your work, Detective Inspector.”

Greg swore softly as John worked his trousers open and pulled his cock out. “Oh god, you -- you’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?”

“More than you know.” John leaned forward to lick a bead of fluid from the slit of Greg’s cock. It tasted even better than he’d expected.

“So have I.” Greg spread his thighs even further apart and groaned. His cock stood up from his groin, hard and red, the foreskin stretched tight around the head. 

John’s mouth actually watered at the sight. “Can you reach the keyboard?” 

“I think so.”

John grinned. “Good. Because you’re not coming until you finish your paperwork.” 

Greg’s head fell back. “Oh my god, you’re evil.”

John took his time with Greg’s gorgeous cock, with teasing licks and nips along the shaft. He slid the tip of his tongue under the foreskin and bathed the head with open-mouthed kisses, his tongue wriggling until it found spots that made Greg suck in sharp breaths. He finally let the head breach his lips and slide in, sucking lightly, pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside. Greg had been tapping erratically at the keyboard above his head, but now he paused to watch John’s lips slide down the shaft.

“I’ve typed _suck_ four times now.”

John chuckled around his mouthful.

“I’m not going to be able to-- ah, fuck, that’s good --fill out a req form again without getting hard.”

“Good,” John whispered as he pulled off. He swirled his tongue around the head.

Greg’s eyes were nearly glazed over. “I’m going to pay you back for this, you know.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Do that thing with your tongue again.”

John nodded his head toward the screen above. “Finished yet?”

Greg closed his eyes and whined. “I hate you.”

Four minutes later Greg finally whispered, “Done,” and John swallowed him down, finishing him in half a dozen long strokes.

He’d barely managed to swallow before Greg hauled him to his feet and pushed him back against the desk. He fumbled with the button of John’s jeans for a moment before finally working them open and pushing them down. John groaned at the feeling of Greg’s fingers wrapping around his cock, long and somehow softer than he’d expected. He gripped the sides of the desk as Greg began to stroke. 

“I’ve always wanted to fuck someone on this desk,” Greg whispered against John’s lips.

“Maybe next time. Ungh, faster.”

Greg slowed down his strokes and smiled. “Actually, I think I’ll take my time.”

He let John get close twice before finally taking pity on him and finishing him with his mouth. John came flat on his back across Greg’s desk, jeans around his ankles and bare arse pressed against a rather thick file folder, and cock further down Greg’s throat that he would have thought possible.

He stared up at the flourescent lights afterward. They were spinning slightly. 

“Good?” Greg’s smug grin floated above him.

John huffed a laugh and held out a hand, and Greg tugged him to his feet. John pulled him into a lazy kiss, slick and wet and sweet. Greg sighed through his nose. 

“You taste like spunk,” John said after a moment.

“So do you.”

“Still want to get a pint?” 

“Yeah. And then back to mine.” 

“Up for another go?”

Greg’s smile was brilliant. “Give me an hour and I will be.”

****

It was two in the morning when John crept up the stairs, carefully stepping over the one that always creaked. He’d showered at Greg’s flat and had planned to go straight up to to his room, but the moment his feet hit the second-floor landing, the door swung open.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him for a full second before widening in surprise. “Twice, really? No, three times. Once in the shower, apparently.”

John’s only reply was a rude gesture.

“This had better not interfere with the work,” Sherlock called as John continued up the stairs.

“Not your concern, Sherlock.”

“Unless he’s willing to trade sexual favors for access to cold cases, of course.”

“Fuck off, Sherlock.”

“Or you could always--”

Sherlock’s next words were pleasantly muffled by the closed bedroom door. John plugged in his mobile, then fell back on his bed fully clothed. He was exhausted, but pleasantly so. He ached in interesting places -- hadn’t done _that_ in a long time, but it really was like riding a bicycle, it turned out. He was going to sleep well and have a well-deserved lie-in tomorrow.

The mobile pinged: probably Sherlock issuing even more ridiculous demands, but he picked it up anyway.

_How did he take it?_

John tapped out a reply. _As expected._

_Next time you should stay._

John smiled.

_I will._

*****


	4. Orangina (Greg/Molly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly learns that Orangina has a very interesting effect on Greg Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dancinggrim and Sfiddy both requested Molly/Lestrade, with prompts of Orangina and commiseration, respectively. Happy Birthday to Rupert Graves!

**

Greg took another long swig from the bottle in his hand and leaned back against the wall. The sky was clear above them. That was unusual this time of year, but even so, only a handful of stars shone through the haze of city lights. 

“It’s not that I mind,” Molly said, her shoulder warm against his. “Much.”

“Why do we put up with it? It’s not like we have to do. Not the way John does.”

“Because deep down, we actually love him very much.” She said it without an ounce of irony, but Greg laughed anyway.

“God help us, we do. Even with all the trouble he makes for us at work.” 

“And elsewhere.” She smiled and picked up the small bottle that she’d brought up to the roof. She unscrewed the cap and lifted it to her lips. 

He frowned. “What are you drinking?”

She ducked her head, clearly embarrassed, and turned the label so he could see it. “I overdid it last weekend on a hen night. I’m still not quite up for alcohol.”

“God, Orangina.” He grinned. “That takes me back.”

“Back to where?” Her face looked almost angelic in the dim light, with curled tendrils of loose hair framing the long pale line of her throat.

He opened his mouth and closed it again, then swallowed. “Italy, a long time ago.”

She leaned a little more heavily against his shoulder. “There’s a story to be told, I hope.”

“Do you really want to hear about my scandalous teenage years?”

“Yes!” she said, and then winced. “I mean, if you want to tell it. It’s always interesting to hear... “ She stopped herself and looked up at the sky again. “I’d like to know more about you, I suppose.”

He felt a pleasant shiver in his belly. “I’ll try not to disappoint, then.” He lifted his own bottle for another drink and let the memories roll around in his mind for a moment. “I had a mate in school whose family liked to travel, and since he was an only child, they’d let him bring a friend along. The summer I was fifteen, they invited me to go to Italy with them for a month.”

“That sounds like an adventure.”

“Especially since they let us roam about as much as we wanted.” He grinned at the memory. “They’d rented an apartment in a beautiful town on the Mediterranean, and so we spent every day on the beach, and every night on the town. God, the things we got up to that summer.”

“Such as?” Molly poked him in the ribs with an elbow.

“Name it, and we did it. It was the 80s.” He shrugged. “And I fell in love with a girl called Annamaria.”

“Oh, this is getting interesting.” She took another drink from her small bottle.

Greg watched the movements of her throat as she swallowed, and forced himself to look up at the sky again. “She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She had long dark hair and amazing eyes, and she was funny as hell. And she wore this tiny bikini.” He still remembered the way her small breasts fit perfectly in his hands. “I couldn’t speak a word of Italian, but she spoke a bit of English - not that we spent much time talking.”

“Summer romance,” Molly said, a bit wistfully. “Was she your first?”

“She was. In every way. I’d never even kissed a girl before her.” He was silent for long moment, lost in the memory.

“What about the Orangina?”

“Oh, right. Well, my mate and I were always drinking beer and liquor and smoking whatever we could get our hands on, but she wasn’t interested in getting high. Every night she’d have a little bottle of Orangina with her. She carried it everywhere and just took sips all night. And so every time I kissed her, that’s what she tasted like.”

Molly raised the bottle to her lips again and hummed in amusement. 

Greg inhaled deeply and caught the scent of oranges. He felt another twinge, something he’d not felt around Molly before. “Jesus, even the smell of the stuff, to this day…” 

“What, Orangina?”

Greg nodded, eyes closed, mind filled with an image of Annamaria on her knees, setting her bottle down before unfastening the zip of his trousers and stroking his cock, tracing her lips along the length of it and tickling sensitive skin with her orange-scented breath.

He opened his eyes to see Molly watching him closely. 

“It gets you going even now?” 

He stared back at her, at the way her eyes sparkled in the dim light. The breeze ruffled her hair, framing her face. She was very close, and he could smell the Orangina in the air between them.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. She sighed against him and raised one hand to his cheek, warm and steady. He slid his arms around her to pull her closer. The taste was the same, but Molly’s kiss was nothing like the memory of Annamaria’s sloppy youthful snog. It was delicate and controlled, intentionally restrained, as if she were testing the waters. She shifted onto her knees and moved even closer, entwining one of her thighs with his, and oh, _there_. 

“Yes, it still does,” he whispered against her lips.

She pressed her thigh forward against his erection and grinned. “So I see.”

He felt the heat of her pussy against his thigh and he clenched his fingers at her hips. Jesus, they were on a roof with only the illusion of privacy. He could see the headlines now: _DI Lestrade Arrested for Public Indecency!_

She pulled back from the kiss to pick up the bottle, and gave him a sly smile. The shape of her body was silhouetted by the streetlights below, far curvier in this cocktail dress than the loose work clothes she usually wore. She raised the bottle to her lips. 

“Oh, God,” he said.

She took another drink and carefully screwed the top back on, then leaned in to kiss him again. She didn’t hold back this time, and he found himself melting against the low wall behind him. It was good, better than good -- he hadn’t been so thoroughly kissed in a decade. Just as he was starting to wonder where exactly this might be headed, she pressed one hand against his cock through his trousers. 

“Is this okay?” she asked, and he whimpered and spread his thighs, not caring how desperate he probably seemed.

She unfastened the button and pulled down the zip, and it was all he could do to be patient. She finally wrapped her fingers around his cock and stroked, he had to bite back a moan.

His fumbled under her skirt, stroking lightly over her mound through her knickers. She made a startled sound and shifted her position to give him better access. He teased a few seconds more, then slipped his fingers under the fabric to find her gloriously wet already. His fingertips parted her labia, stroking slowly up towards her clit and back down again, and she shivered against him. He repeated the movement, keeping his touch light until she finally pressed down into his hand. 

“You feel amazing,” he said, and he pushed two fingers inside her. God, the heat of her -- he groaned. “And even better like this.” 

Her hand stilled on his cock as his fingers began to move, her breath stuttering against his lips.

“Oh God, I want--”

“Do you have a--

“No.”

“Nor do I.” He pumped his fingers in and out of her while his thumb circled her clit, and thought he could come just from the noises she was making. 

“It’s fine; this is… ah, _Greg_.” She kept stroking him erratically, her face now buried against his shoulder.

“How do you like it?” he asked, panting now. His fingers were dripping and her cunt was warm, and oh, _God_ , he could smell her now. He wanted to bury his face between her thighs, to lick and suck until she screamed his name, to drown in the wetness he could feel dripping down his wrist. 

“Deeper, another finger. Fuck me, come on.” Her hips moved in time with his fingers, riding his hand. He applied more pressure to her clit, and she gasped. She’d abandoned his cock altogether, but given the way she was digging her fingers into his arms, it was probably for the best. “Right there, right there,” she whispered, and, “oh, God, right… yes…” He felt her tighten around his fingers as she came, and it was all he could do not to go over the edge himself.

He dropped his hand when she stopped groaning, but she pulled it back between her thighs and held it there, rutting against it, and came again. 

“God, Molly.” He had his own hand on his cock now, pulling the foreskin over the head with short, swift strokes.

She released him and he switched the hand on his cock -- he was better with his right anyway, and this one had the advantage of being wet and smelling like pussy and oh, _God_. Molly’s mouth covered his again and her hand slid into his pants, first tugging gently at his balls and then pressing her fingers up into the skin just behind. 

He cried out before he could stop himself. Molly’s mouth moved to his throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks as he pulsed hot over his own hand.

He sat there panting for a moment, hand soiled and wrapped loosely around his softening cock, staring up at the sky. “That was… God.”

“It was.” Molly leaned across him to fumble through her purse, and he pressed a sleepy kiss to her shoulder. She sat back and handed him a tissue.

“Thanks.” He managed to wipe the worst of it off his shirt, but there was still an obvious stain. He’d have to find another laundry to take this particular shirt to -- he wouldn’t be able to look the staff in the eye at the usual place. He looked up to see Molly smiling fondly at him. “Did I get you as well?”

“I don’t think so.” She laughed and then looked down at his groin a bit curiously.

He’d forgotten he was still exposed. He lifted his hips and tugged his pants and trousers back up, then frowned at his shirt. “I don’t think I can go back down there like this.”

“I don’t think I’d recommend it.” She settled next to him again and picked up the Orangina bottle. “Can you imagine what Sherlock would say?”

“I don’t think I want to.”

“He’d take one look at us and announce to everyone that we’d just had a go at each other on the roof.” She frowned and lowered her voice. “From the angle the semen hit your shirt, Gavin, I’d say you were sitting at a 45 degree angle at the moment of climax.”

“No, don’t!” Greg pressed a hand over his forehead and laughed again. “That’s far too accurate an impression.”

She grinned and uncapped her bottle once more. He watched her take a long drink, then reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She turned to look at him again.

“So do you--” she said and the same time as he said, “Would you like to--”

They both laughed. He gestured for her to go first.

“I think I’ll go as well. It’s all boring small talk down there, anyway.” 

“Well in that case, would you be interested in coming back to mine for… well, for whatever you’d be interested in… doing?” He winced and looked up at the sky. He was terribly out of practice with this sort of thing.

“For more sex, you mean?” He looked down to see her trying not to grin. 

“Yeah.” He felt his cheeks heat. 

“That would be fantastic. Have you got any condoms?”

“I don’t… think I do.” 

“We’ll stop off on the way to get some, then, and I can pick up a spare toothbrush. Is it alright if I stay over?”

“Yeah, of course.” 

“I’ve tested negative for everything, and I’m comfortable with oral sex without a barrier. You?”

He blinked. “Are you usually this direct?”

“About sex? Yes.” Molly screwed the cap back onto her half-full bottle of Orangina. She stood and extended a hand. He let himself be pulled to his feet. 

“I should probably tell you I haven’t had anyone over in… well, not since my divorce. I’m a bit out of practice.”

Her smile was brilliant. “I think I can help with that.”

He pulled her close and kissed her. “Yeah, I believe you can.”

****

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and encouragement will be treasured!


End file.
